by Debra Kent
But I had done precisely that, I remembered with a guilty shiver. Eddie’s wife had called. I hadn’t wanted her to call again. I took the phone off the hook. I’d completely forgotten that Pete might need to reach me.
Judge Brand rubbed his eyes wearily. “Mr. Sloan, you are making a tenuous connection at best. Mrs. Chase, you are excused.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. Lynette gave me another one of her grief-stricken stares. I couldn’t bear to look at her.
Omar squeezed my hand. “Don’t panic,” he whispered. “It’s going great.” And you know what? For a minute I actually agreed with him. For the first time since the hearing had begun, I’d actually allowed myself to feel optimistic. Until that point, I’d assumed the worst: I was going to wind up childless, penniless, homeless. Now Omar’s confidence bolstered me like steel beams. I felt bulletproof. We were going to win this thing. I knew it.
Omar reached into his briefcase and pulled something out. “Your Honor, I’d like to move on to our next piece of testimony,” he said. He was holding a videotape.
I hadn’t even noticed the VCR on our table until Omar slipped the videotape inside. My pulse pounded as he leaned across the table to switch on the TV. Omar pressed the play button on the VCR. There was nothing but deafening gray static. He fiddled with a few more buttons but no picture appeared. “Where are those nerdy A/V squad guys when you need them?” Omar muttered. Sloan rapped his pencil impatiently while Roger smirked. Kelia was still chewing her fingernails.
Omar haphazardly smacked a few more buttons. Finally a picture appeared on the screen. It was a woman, small but sturdy, perched on the edge of a tall kitchen stool. She wore a baggy black shirt and black pants, the nylon kind with many pockets and zippers and Velcro tabs. She held a cigarette between the thumb and index finger of her small hand, but over the next ten minutes, she never brought the cigarette to her lips, not once, not even when she appeared visibly distressed.
“Zoom in on me,” she said. “No, not that button. The other one. I said, the other one.” She rolled her eyes exasperatedly. “That’s it. Get in close.”
The voice had the authority of a Marine Corps sergeant. I knew that voice. It was Mary’s aunt Esta. Now her face filled the TV screen. Her black hair was cut short, like a man’s, and she wore a red beret at a rakish angle. Her face was shaped like a heart but her mouth was drawn and severe, a taut, lipless razor blade line.
Omar paused the tape. “Your Honor, at this point I would like to introduce the videotaped testimony of Ms. Esta Domingo. To quickly review, Roger Tisdale married Mary in a bogus ceremony, and kept her as a virtual prisoner in a condominium on Lake Merle. When confronted with his bigamy, Mr. Tisdale attempted to deny any relationship—actually, he attempted to deny any knowledge—of this girl. I believe that Esta Domingo’s testimony will settle the question of whether Roger Tisdale deserves custody of Peter Ryan Tisdale.” The judge nodded and Omar switched the tape back on.
Esta stared into the camera. “I’m sorry I cannot be there in person to testify. As I explained to Mr. Sweet, we are in the process of building a battered women’s shelter and I am needed here.
“She didn’t want to have sex with him,” Esta continued, in a vaguely British accent. “But he filled her head with useless dreams. He said he would send her to nursing school someday. But the bastard never even registered her for bloody high school! What kind of bullshit is that?” Esta stabbed the air with her cigarette. “Roger Tisdale wasn’t a husband. He was a man who liked young girls. He was a pig!”
I tried to read Brand’s expression. He had the pained and disgusted look of a man with a bad case of gastroesophageal reflux. I found this encouraging. But I couldn’t understand why Omar was so excited. There was no news here. Esta’s testimony was already in the file.
Esta straightened her beret. “I suppose I should get to the matter at hand,” she continued. “The issue, as I understand it, is whether or not Roger Tisdale is fit to be a father.”
“Your Honor, this is ludicrous,” Sloan complained wearily.
Judge Brand instructed Omar to pause the tape.
“Your Honor, by her own admission, this woman doesn’t know Roger Tisdale,” Sloan went on, rubbing his head. “She is not a child development expert. She knows nothing about the particulars of this case or the people involved. She is not qualified to address the issue of Roger Tisdale’s paternal competence. I respectfully request that we go no further with this tape, Your Honor. For God’s sake, Your Honor, do we really need to waste everyone’s time with this crazy woman’s testimony?”
“Sit down, Mr. Sloan.”
“But Your Honor, this testimony is based on hearsay and puffery,” Sloan whined, sounding very much like one of those fey prep school boys I’d known in graduate school. Actually, he sounded quite a bit like my ex-husband. “It’s the biased testimony of a wacky paramilitary man-hating feminist.” Sloan paused for dramatic effect and pulled out his trump card. “She is a lesbian, Your honor.”
“Sit down, Mr. Sloan,” the judge ordered. “And stay down. I want to see this tape. Please, Mr. Sweet.”
“My pleasure, Your Honor.” Omar hit the button again.
The frozen Esta was reanimated. “When Mary thought she was pregnant, she called me in desperation. She wanted an abortion. But it didn’t make sense. Mary loved babies. She told me she had to do it for him. Roger Tisdale. He’s the one who told her to get rid of the fetus. He told Mary he hated kids. I remember this precisely. Roger told Mary that children were a burden and a nuisance. He said kids just get in the way. He said he never even wanted Pete. He told Mary that if she goes through with the pregnancy, he would kill the baby himself, with his bare hands.”
“Hearsay, Your Honor! This proves nothing, Your Honor!” Sloan interjected. Omar paused the tape.
“I believe I told you to shut up, Mr. Sloan.” The judge turned to Omar. “Is that the gist of it, Mr. Sweet? Or does this witness have anything more substantive to say on this issue?”
“Yes, Your Honor. One more thing, if you’ll indulge me just a moment longer, sir.” He switched on the tape.
“Okay. Now. Get a wide-angle shot,” Esta instructed. The unnamed cameraperson pulled back. Esta was holding something in her hands. It looked like a Dictaphone. “We always tape our phone conversations. House rule.” Esta pressed a button and held the tiny machine in the air. “Okay. Zoom in again.”
And then I heard Mary’s voice, the childlike quaver, the pleading desperation. “You have to help me, Auntie,” Mary begged. I felt a lump rise in my throat. “Roger says I have to get rid of my baby. If I don’t, he’s going to kill it. He said he would come in the middle of the night and grab the baby by the throat and squeeze it dead with his own hands, Auntie! He swore it to God, Auntie! Oh, please, help me!” Esta clicked off the machine and stared into the camera. “So if you want to know whether Roger Tisdale would be a good father, I think you have your answer now.”
“That’s about the gist of it, Your Honor,” Omar said. “After this point we’re dealing with variations on a theme, sir.”
“In that case, you may turn off the tape. I believe I’ve heard enough.” Judge Brand removed his glasses and ran a hand over his face. He stood up. “Please be back in this courtroom in forty-five minutes.”
Sloan and his assistants huddled among themselves. Omar reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Say a little prayer, Valerie. Not that we need it now. We’ve got this one in the bag.”
Omar had enough confidence to dash out during Judge Brand’s deliberations for a pint of hot and sour soup. I sat alone on a bench at the far end of the corridor, beneath the wide, dirty window, and felt the sun warm the back of my head.
I closed my eyes. I could hear Roger and Kelia talking—no, bickering. She must have told him to take deep cleansing breaths, or maybe she suggested he “be in the moment,” because all of a sudden I heard him bark, “Cut the Buddhist crap, okay? I’m not one of your suburban house
wife yoga morons,” and she winced as if he had slapped her. Roger’s tongue could sting sharper than any hand. Kelia must have discovered that by now.
And all I could think was, the bloom must be off the fucking rose. Now she can deal with Roger’s sniping remarks, the cold wars, the public humiliations. I remembered the time we’d had some people over for dinner, Alexis something, a colleague from the Learning Attic, and her husband, Stephan, a classical pianist. We were sipping wine and talking about movies. I remember feeling unusually happy and relaxed. I happened to mention Das Boat, the one about German soldiers in a submarine.
“Das Boat?” Roger sneered. “You mean, Das BOOT?” He pronounced boot with a German accent, while I’d merely said Das Boat, half German, half English, the half-assed attempt of a girl who had never mastered languages, who had never traveled abroad, who felt like an algae among these cultured pearls of academia.
“Boot, boat, whatever.” I hoped my husband wouldn’t make a scene. “What do I know? I took Spanish.”
“Okay, then, say boat in Spanish.” Roger folded his arms and smiled at his friends.
After seven years of Spanish, I couldn’t remember how to say boat. Crazy sounds and stray Spanish words bumbled in my head. Película. Manzana. Man of La Mancha. Chimichanga.
“I’m waiting, Señora Ryan.”
I felt myself blush. I thought I heard Alexis giggle. And then a miracle happened. “Barco,” I said, amazed that I’d remembered, but also angry that I’d debased myself by indulging him in his cruel little game.
Roger clapped his hands. “Bravo! Now why don’t you toddle into the cocina and fix us some café?” He tossed his head back and roared. Alexis and Stephan looked embarrassed for me.
I looked at my watch. The judge would be ready with his decision in six minutes. I began to torture myself with the possibility that Roger might have full custody of our son. What would I do? Then I remembered that little verse I learned in my brief stint with Overeaters Anonymous: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …
How had we gotten to this place? I remembered the joy on Roger’s face when I called him into the bathroom to see the pregnancy test dip stick, which, by the way, he had matted and framed. I thought of the way he retrieved Ben & Jerry’s fudge brownie frozen yogurt for me, just because I mentioned I had a hankering for it. How he massaged my swollen legs in those final weeks of pregnancy, how he kissed every toe and lettered each one: P-E-T-E-R and E-M-I-L-Y. We didn’t know whether we were having a boy or a girl until Pete finally entered the world, and when he did, Roger cried like a baby himself.
Every promise and hope for the future, these were not idle promises or vain hopes, were they?
A cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie suddenly appeared in my lap. “Go ahead. See what the future holds.” Omar towered above me, sleek as a fox and fully refreshed while I sat there like a sweaty Easter egg in Lynette’s maternity jumper.
I unwrapped the cookie and cracked it open. It was empty. I stared into my lap. I felt like crying.
“Empty, huh?” He seemed to be suppressing a grimace. “Hey, you know what that means, don’t you?”
“No, Omar, what does it mean?” I said, knowing he was making something up on the spot.
“That just means the possibilities are infinite.”
“Really? I always thought it meant I was going to die.”
“We’re all going to die, Valerie. But I have a hunch you’re not going anywhere anytime soon, and I’m just as confident that empty fortune cookies are not a reliable predictor of one’s mortality—it just means someone was falling down on the job at the fortune cookie factory. So ease up on yourself, okay?” He squatted in front of me, and I marveled at his flexibility. My own legs were half as short and I couldn’t spontaneously squat if you paid me. “Valerie?”
“What?”
“Listen to Uncle Omar. Everything will be fine.” Omar looked at his watch and quickly sprung to his feet (equally impressive). “It’s time.” He grasped my hand and pulled me up. “Let’s get in there before Judge Brand does. He hates waiting.”
When we got back into the courtroom, Roger was already there but Kelia was not. Brand hoisted himself into his seat and cleared his throat. He looked tired. He shuffled and scanned some papers on his table. He took a deep breath and just stared, first at Roger, then at me. I wished I could read his mind. I wanted to get this over with.
“I’m not one of these judges who believes in the sacrosanct authority of all mothers,” he began, and my heart sunk like an stone. “Yes, it’s true that mother and child have a unique relationship. The mother carries and nurtures a child in her womb. She brings him into the world. She feeds him with her own body.” Judge Brand leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling as he continued. “But there is so much more to motherhood beyond this process of gestation and birth and the act of breast-feeding. Who answers the child’s cries at night? Who creates a neat and orderly home for this child? Who gives him the spiritual and emotional guidance he needs to become a fine young man? Who?”
The judge paused and I fixated on the phrase “neat and orderly home.” What, exactly, did he mean by that? Had someone told him that there have been petrified remnants of a Happy Meal in the back of my Jeep since November? Did he know I’ve bought seven Phillips screwdrivers and can’t find any of them? I prayed: God, if you give me full custody of Pete, I swear to you I will make a neat and orderly home for my son. I’ll hang all my clothes at the end of the day, instead of heaping them on a chair. I will organize all the crap under the sink in the bathroom. I will find all my tools and keep them in a toolbox. Even better—I’ll build a workshop in the garage with one of those pegboards with silhouettes of all the tools so you always know where everything goes. Dear God, please.
“Mr. Sloan,” Judge Brand began, “when you and your client initially approached me for an ex parte hearing, you were working an angle, so to speak.” Judge Brand leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You told me you had evidence that Ms. Ryan was in a sexual relationship with another woman. Specifically, that she had adopted a lesbian lifestyle. Mr. Sloan, I believe you chose this particular approach based on recent events in my own life, events that I have struggled to keep private. You attempted to use this information to your advantage. That was shoddy lawyering, Mr. Sloan. And as a strategy, it was a failure.”
Roger held his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. Omar reached under the table and squeezed my hand.
The judge turned toward me. “Ms. Ryan, I have heard testimony today regarding your competence as a mother. I have heard about campfires and soap carvings and burned fingers, stories your ex-husband had hoped might support his case that you are unfit to retain full physical custody of Peter Ryan Tisdale.”
Roger stopped rocking and began paying attention. He looked hopeful.
“But if I pulled children away from their parents every time some kid experimented with matches, there wouldn’t be a child in this county living at home. They’d all be in foster care—and even then, they’re going to explore the outer bounds of acceptable behavior. That’s what kids do. And it doesn’t make you a bad mother because Pete did it too.”
In a rush of relief, and gratitude for the judge’s kindness, I started to sob and once I started, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop. This had been the nicest thing anyone had said about me in a very long time. Omar patted me on the back as I tried to pull myself together.
“Mr. Tisdale, I was prepared to judge this case solely on your merits as a father. I’d read your file. I knew you had a questionable history where the ladies are concerned, but I was prepared to set that aside for the purpose of determining custodial rights.”
I held my breath. I think everyone in the room did.
“I changed my mind,” Brand said. “After rereading your file, and hearing testimony in this courtroom today, I am convinced that your ability as a father is inextricably entwined with everything else in your life
, with all the foul choices you’ve made as a husband, with your devious behavior, your shameless philandering, your puerile interest in young women, with your disgusting exploitation of a Filipina teenager.”
Oh, joy! I wanted to grab Judge Brand and twirl him around the room. How I loved that man! But then his face darkened, and he looked toward me, and I knew I wasn’t home free.
“Ms. Ryan, despite your husband’s flagrantly decrepit behavior, I do believe that young Peter has every right to know his father. I’m doing this only for Peter’s benefit, not Mr. Tisdale’s—at this point I don’t give a damn what Roger Tisdale wants. But Peter will flourish best if his father has some presence in his life, and that’s a fact, whether or not you agree with me. So after careful deliberation—and with some reluctance, I must frankly add—I have decided to grant full physical custody to Valerie Ryan, and supervised visitation rights to Roger Tisdale. Mr. Tisdale, you may visit with Peter Ryan Tisdale on two Saturdays per month. Ms. Ryan will choose the specific dates at her discretion, and visits will take place at a location of Ms. Ryan’s choosing. These visits will be supervised by Ms. Ryan or someone she appoints as her surrogate.” Judge Brand smacked his gavel. “We are adjourned.”
Omar grabbed me and wrapped me with his arms. “We did it!” he whispered, radiant with victory. I know I should have been happy. I was granted full physical custody of my son. And Pete would still have contact with his father, which, I suppose, was a good thing. But I’d hoped to slash Roger out of my life entirely, and now I would remain linked to him—and his assorted girlfriends—two precious Saturdays every month, for years and years and years to come. I wanted to cry.
When Pete got home, I hugged him long and hard. “You’re choking me, Mommy.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s just that I really, really missed you today.”
“What did the judge say?” he asked.